Writing a Start
by weirdgirl42
Summary: Dr. Turner's letters to Sister Bernadette in the sanatorium. I know it's been done but I couldn't help myself. LAST CHAPTER POSTED
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I don't own anything_

**Chapter 1**

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I've spent every hour since watching you walk bravely into St. Anne's trying to work up the courage to write. And now that I have, I find I don't even know where to begin. I have stared at a blank piece of paper for nearly half an hour simply trying to decide how to formulate a proper salutation. "Dear Sister Bernadette" seems far too cold and yet I can think of no alternative which would be acceptable. It's as though I want to write two different letters; one from my mind, and one from, well, somewhere else. One letter seems entirely too formal and the other, I'm afraid, would be entirely inappropriate. So I suppose in this, as in most aspects of my life, I must rely on my mind. To do otherwise may prove, unforgivable.

The doctor part of my mind would like to inquire after your health. While I firmly do believe that the triple treatment can work wonders, especially on a patient in the early stages like yourself, I know that the medication can take its toll on the body. I trust the doctors at St. Anne's implicitly but I would like to hear from your own words how you are getting along.

Timothy asked after you yesterday. I could not lie to him and say you were off on holiday. He sends his best wishes and asks me to tell you that he hopes the food is alright where you are. My son has a rather one-track mind I fear, and yet I'm afraid my cooking still leaves something to be desired. I hope you know how fond he is of you. I know I cannot thank you enough for the kindness you show him.

I'm afraid I must soon start my afternoon rounds. I hope this letter finds you well and that I will receive a favorable report in reply.

Best Wishes,

Dr. P. Turner

_TBC_

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	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

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I still have not determined a proper salutation for these letters, as evidenced by the fact my letter has simply begun without introduction. I would welcome any input if you have a suggestion but until a decision is made, I'm afraid I will have to just dive right in.

Poplar seems strange without you. It's been nearly a month and yet I still find myself subconsciously looking around for you at the antenatal clinic each week. There have been several times when I have been called to assist a birth and feel a brief flash of disappointment when it is not your face I see in the room. I suppose one gets used to one's little corner of the world and any drastic alteration will take time to get used to. Though I sincerely hope that before I do get used to your absence, you will have returned to us healthy once again.

I found myself recently thinking about the night we delivered Mavis Carter's twins. I suppose this is because the twins were brought to the clinic for a checkup last week. Seeing them transported me back to that dim room so many months ago. I remember how magnificent you were that night. How you brought a baby back to life, how your countenance never failed, even after being attacked by Meg Carter. It may shock you to know that it took everything in me that night not to strike a woman for the first time in my life. When I saw you fall to the floor I have never felt such a blind rage directed at another human being. In all honesty the only thing that tempered my anger was the knowledge that you would not have wanted me to become violent in response. But enough of that.

How are you? Are they treating you well? I know sanatoriums have their own brand of historical stigma but we have made such strides in the past few decades. I do hope that your time is at least bearable. Timothy just walked into the kitchen and saw me writing. He says to tell you hello and to ask if you thought you'd be well again by the next fete. He seems rather afraid of the prospect of having me as a three-legged race partner. I shall close this letter by saying that I think of you often and hope you are well on your way to recovery. The whole of Poplar misses your presence. Me, perhaps, more than most.

Your Friend,

Dr. P. Turner

_TBC_

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	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

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Dear Friend,

I have decided at last upon a greeting. I hope you will not think it improper. Regardless of anything that has happened, I would like to hope that we are still friends. It has been so very long since I felt I had a real friend. I have colleagues of course. I have the midwives of Nonnatus to fret over whether or not Timothy and I are eating right. And I have Timothy, though he is still too young for us to be true friends. In all honesty I haven't had a proper friend since Timothy's mother. Before that it was friends in the war, and childhood friends. All lost to death or to time. So I find myself now incredibly glad for a real friend. Someone I feel truly understands me. Someone I can be myself around, instead of the ever stoic Dr. Turner. Someone whose eyes seem to see into my very being. But perhaps I say too much, take liberties with your kindness that I do not deserve. You are kind to everyone and perhaps you see me now as only a doctor, only a co-worker. After the way I have behaved, I would not blame you.

I do not know what else to write. I confess that each day my longing to receive a reply grows. Even just a note saying that you are alright. I could ask after your health but I do not wish to become repetitive in my writing. I could regale you with stories of births but I am sure the nurses have that covered. So I am at a loss. I fear that if I put my true feelings down on paper, you would never forgive the impertinence and seeming disrespect to your vows. But I also cannot bear the thought of not writing, of not reaching out in some small way. With each day that passes I miss you more acutely. It seems Poplar has turned into a spirit lamp with a damp wick. With you gone, all the light has gone out. Please write me, even if just to tell me that I have behaved appallingly and you never want to hear from me again.

I am not a man of God, but I find myself praying for you daily. I pray that you will heal. I pray to whomever is listening that you come back safe. To Poplar. And maybe in a perfect world, to me.

Your Friend,

Dr. P. Turner

_TBC_

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	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

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Dear Friend,

Until today I could convince myself that the stress of treatment and illness were keeping you from writing. Now I know that you have been writing, but not to me. Forgive me if I sound angry, I assure my anger is directed entirely inward and never at you. I know now that my behavior and letters must make you uncomfortable and for that I am truly sorry. If I have spoken out of turn, if I have done anything to offend you, please know it was only out of fear of losing someone...well...someone very important to me. But I will endeavor to show you that I can remain professional, that we can remain friends.

I have read recently of doctors in Scotland using ultrasound technology to create images of children inside the womb. It seems like a fascinating development and could lead to faster treatment of everything from eclampsia to spinabifida. The article was in _The Lancet_. I have cut it out and included it with this letter. I know how tedious long-term medical treatment can get and I thought you might enjoy something new to read. I would welcome any thoughts you have on this new medical development. While I think it could one day revolutionize patient care, I also cringe at the idea of midwives having to cart enormous machines around on their bicycles in order to appease concerned mothers. I think we all learned our lesson with gas and air, me most of of all.

By the time you read this letter I imagine Nurse Franklin will have visited. I know all the nurses and Sisters look forward to return, and not just because you are apparently the most skilled nappy demonstrator. I look forward to your return as well and hope that it comes sooner rather than later.

Your Friend,

Dr. P. Turner

_TBC_

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	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

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Dear Friend,

I confess that my resolve to remain entirely professional in my correspondence has waned. I've lost two children in as many days. I've been sat in my kitchen for an hour now, just staring into space. Timothy came in and asked if I wanted to talk about it. It didn't seem fair to burden a child with the darkness of the world. He asked who I normally talked to when I was sad. I realized I could not give an answer. Even when his mother was alive I never talked to her about work when things went wrong. I assume she could guess when I would come home looking like I did tonight. But I suppose I never wanted to burden her with the darkness either. Before he left, Timothy said that since I listen to everyone else's problems, I should have someone who listens to mine as well. I don't remember taking out a paper and pen but before I knew it I had already written St. Anne's on the envelope. You are the only person I want to speak with when things seem so wrong they'll never be right again. You are the person I want to speak with when things are wonderful as well. In truth, there are very few times in the day that I don't find myself wishing I could speak with you.

The first child I lost this week was Sarah Marshall's little girl. Only four months old. It was pertussis. I had no idea the child was ill. David Marshall said she'd been coughing for a week but they just assumed it was dampness in their flat. By the time I arrived there was nothing I could do. Even now, many hours later, I can still hear the sound of Sarah Marshall's sobs ringing in my ears. The second child was a stillbirth. I have seen so many over the years, but it never gets any easier. I never forget the pain and disappointment and anger on the parents' faces.

How do you nurses do it? How do you close your eyes at night and not hear the cries of pain and suffering? I see the way you all are able to bravely soldier on. To help the next woman and the next, knowing there is only so much any of us can do against the will of God or the chances of fate. I envy your strength, and your courage.

I told you once that I wished you could give me some of your faith. You told me you wished it mattered. I can tell you now that it matters a great deal. If you were here I know you would tell me that God has a plan, that he had a plan for Sarah Marshall's child and for all the stillborn children we see year after year. If I close my eyes I can hear your voice in my head and I remember all the good in the world. I remember that a universe made it possible for me to meet you cannot be so random as to be truly godless. I know I promised to write with my mind, instead of my heart and I have broken that promise. But in this moment I know only that I miss you and long to hear your voice.

Your Friend,

P. Turner.

_TBC_

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	6. Chapter 6

_Well we've come to the end. Thanks for reading everyone! Here's looking forward to an awesome Christmas Special and series 3._

**Chapter 6**

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Dearest Friend,

Timothy caught me staring into space today. We were sitting in the car, the wipers moving back and forth and for some reason I couldn't tear my eyes away from the rain. Timothy asked me if I was sad, I told him no. He told me I looked like a sheepdog who'd lost his sheep, which is apparently a phrase he learned from his grandmother to describe my countenance after his mother passed. It was in that moment that I allowed myself to understand the truth. I am not sad, I am terrified. I have already watched one woman I love be torn from me by disease, I do not think I could bear to go through that again. It may be wrong, it may be improper, but I cannot bear the thought of losing you without having the chance to tell you how I feel.

I cannot put an hour or even a day on the moment when I came to love you. I suppose it must have been somewhere between Henley's and spirit lamps. I knew that day in the parish hall. I knew that moment when you helped a little girl find the courage to get an x-ray. And I have known these months since you went away. The poets say that absence makes the heart grow fonder. In my case, absence has simply made the heart grow more certain.

I want you to know that I expect nothing from you. I know the path you have chosen to walk in life and I respect it immensely. Perhaps that is the most important thing I have learned during these months of separation. That love need not be returned to bring one peace. Knowing that you are living in this world, knowing that you are happy, that is enough for my heart to feel joy. There was a time where I thought I would never feel this joy again. So even if you never return my feelings, even if you can never speak to me again, I want you to know that you brought me back to life. Your light has shined into my soul and there is no going back into the dark. And for that, I will be forever grateful.

Yours,

P. Turner

**The End**


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